Miles to Go
by Capella Riddle
Summary: 5-year-olds understand the world differently than adults do. What happens when 5-year-old Harry Potter makes a small misunderstanding that changes the course of his life? How much difference can a love of learning really make? Pre-Hogwarts.
1. Boy

Harry James Potter was a bad Boy. He knew this fact better than his own name. According to his uncle, good Boys didn't take up as much space as Harry did, they weren't tripped into valuable vases (even though Aunt Petunia always complained that she didn't like that vase), and they didn't take time out of Uncle Vernon's day to be taught how to use the lawnmower. They didn't have an imagination, didn't uses up perfectly good bandages because they'd burnt themselves on the cookstove, didn't eat as much as Harry did, and didn't act like Freaks. This was Uncle Vernon's biggest reason that Harry was a bad Boy. Harry didn't mean to be a Freak, and he tried his best to stop being one, but he wasn't exactly sure why Uncle Vernon called him that, so he didn't know what to stop doing.

Harry also tried his best to be a good Boy, but though Uncle Vernon told him what a good Boy didn't do, he'd never told Harry what a good Boy _did_ do. Harry was smart though (at least according to his year one teacher), and he'd done his best to figure what made him a bad Boy, and how to be a proper one. As far as he'd been able to tell, every family had a Boy to do cooking and cleaning and weeding for them. He had never met another Boy… or he didn't think he had. None of the kids at school knew he was a Boy, so maybe some of the other kids in his class were Boys, too. Or maybe he was just the only Boy who went to school. Most families also had children, which were different then Boys. Dudley was a Son, and that meant that he didn't have to work, and could eat all he wanted, and could order Harry around.

Before Harry had realized this distinction in their roles, he'd tried to be a good Boy by acting like Dudley. That had failed spectacularly, ending with a week in his cupboard and three days without food or water. He didn't think they'd meant not to feed him; he couldn't work as well when he hadn't been fed. They'd probably just forgotten him again. He liked it when they forgot him, as it meant he got to read his book and play war games in peace. This time, however, Uncle Vernon had been so incensed with Harry's impudence that he'd locked the cupboard door after tossing Harry in, and Harry hadn't been able to sneak out and get food.

That was one of the reasons that Harry was so intent on learning to be a good Boy. He didn't like it when his belly hurt, and it hurt badly when he didn't get food or water. There was also Christmas; Uncle Vernon often said that bad Boys didn't deserve any presents. Harry assumed that this meant that good Boys did deserve presents. Most importantly, though, Aunt Petunia said that his parents had been Freaks, which she called Harry as well. Harry was also a Boy. Did that mean that his parents had been Boys, too? Harry idly wondered what a girl Boy was called.

That was his biggest reason for wanting to be a good Boy. If he were good, perhaps Aunt Petunia would tell him about his parents. He made a list. From what he gathered, good boys: came knowing how to cook, didn't eat much, weren't seen or heard, and took up less space then a cupboard under the stairs.

Harry had been working hard on number three; he couldn't do much about not being seen, but his teacher had become used to him not speaking, even going so far as to suggest speech therapy to Uncle Vernon on Parent-Teacher Day. Uncle Vernon had yelled at him and sent him to his cupboard for attracting attention, but since then he hadn't been yelled at for asking what Uncle Vernon called stupid questions. He'd been yelled at for plenty of other stuff, but not for stupid questions.

He'd also started on number four. Harry had moved his scavenged toys, his one book, Grimm's Fairy Tales, and his pile of ratty blankets to the very edge of underneath the steps. He'd gotten stuck three times in two days, and he had a bruise on his hip from where he'd been sleeping underneath the bottom step when Dudley jumped on it, but Aunt Petunia had almost smiled when she discovered she now had a place to put the new vacuum cleaner she'd been wanting and that made his trouble worth it. Also, with his toy soldiers and book in the smallest corner of the cupboard, Aunt Petunia was less likely to find them when she was looking for cleaning chemicals.

Right now, Harry was working on item numbers one and two. Every week, his year one class took a trip to the local library for Story Time. Though most of the children chose to sit and listen to the librarian, the were free to wander off, as long as they stayed in the library. Harry was wandering through the shelves, on a mission.

Aunt Petunia did the hard cooking whenever they had guests, and he'd seen the cookbooks she used, the ones that told you how to make fancy food. He'd made the mistake of asking for one once, and Aunt Petunia had gone off at him, shrieking at him to 'keep his freaky little hands off of her mother's cookbooks.' That had confused Harry. He knew he was a bit late in learning how to cook; apparently good Boys were born knowing how to, but couldn't he be allowed to learn? Apparently not, judging by Aunt Petunia's shrieks. So Harry took matters into his own hands; he would find some cookbooks of his own, and learn how to cook, and he'd make enough food that he'd be able to eat some too. Harry's thoughts were interrupted by a kind sounding voice from above his head.

"Are you looking for something, dearie?"

Harry jumped and spun around. He'd been so absorbed by sounding out the titles in front of him that he hadn't noticed the grey-haired librarian behind him. He mentally scolded himself. What if that had been Dudley and Piers? They were in a library with adults watching, but Aunt Petunia had never stopped Dudley from hitting Harry, so why should any body else? Harry was only a Boy, after all, and Dudley was a Son.

Harry realized he'd been staring off into space when the librarian asked, "Are you lost? Your class is with Ms. Tricia, I'll show you where." Harry was conflicted. On one hand, good Boys didn't talk, especially not to strangers. On the other hand, there were an awful lot of books in the library for him to look through, even if he only sounded out the titles. His decision was made when he realized that, by the kind way the librarian was looking at him, she probably didn't realize he was a Boy, so she didn't expect him to be silent.

He shyly said, "I'm look for cookbooks, ma'am." The librarian's eyebrows rose, and she skeptically asked,

"Cookbooks?"

"Yes, Ma'am.", Harry answered. Seized with a burst of inspiration, he added, "My aunt wanted me to get some while I was here." The librarian smiled at him, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. She introduced herself as Mrs. Amy, led him to a shelf by a cozy looking set of chairs, and helped him pick out several books, including "The Child's Cookbook," "Desserts for Dummies," and "202 Recipes." He followed her up to the checkout counter and discovered his next problem when she asked for his library card.

"Huh?", Harry asked, brow furrowed. Mrs. Amy quickly explained what a library card was, and pulled out a form for him to take home to his guardian. Harry wrinkled his nose in consternation, trying to think of something, anything, that would get the librarian to help him. With a glance at the form, he'd realized that he would have no chance of understanding most of what he needed to fill out, and he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Aunt Petunia wouldn't help him. He put on his most pitiful face and looked up at the librarian.

"But it was supposed to be a surprise!" The librarian raised an eyebrow at him.

"I thought you said your aunt wanted you to get those books." Harry looked down, as though ashamed.

"Well, she said she wanted to look at some new cookbooks." He look back up at the librarian, inventing wildly. "But it's her birthday this week, and I don't have any money to buy her anything, and I don't wanna ask her for money to buy her something, so I thought I could at least show her some new books…" He purposefully trailed off, expression pleading. The librarians expression softened. If only her children had been this thoughtful…

"Your aunt is a very lucky lady," she said, smiling at Harry. "Now, lets get this form filled out." She knew she was breaking policy, but the child was just so cute, with his little button nose, bright green eyes, and messy black hair.

Harry knew what year he was born in, but he had to invent a birthday. He also had to promise to take the form home with him and get it signed by his aunt. Once he'd nodded in fervent agreement, the librarian copied the information into the library's records, printed Harry out a library card, then checked his books out. Harry thank Mrs. Amy and stuffed the books in his ragged backpack, glancing over at the rest of his class to make sure Dudley was still enthralled in the tale of the stinky cheese man. He was. Harry moseyed over to the children's section, to a bookshelf behind Dudley, mostly so neither Dudley nor Piers could see him, but somewhat because he'd seen a title that interested him. He pulled a book entitled "How to Train Your Dragon" off of the shelf and smiled at the illustration on the back. He looked at the shelf to discover that there two more "How to…" books, apparently in the same series. He pulled them off of the shelves, too. He looked at the three books in his hands. He was torn. They wouldn't teach him how to be a better boy, and they'd distract him from his chores, which would make Harry an even worse Boy. They looked to have so much imagination that Uncle Vernon would have a fit if he caught Harry reading them. They might even give Harry all sorts of the freaky ideas Aunt Petunia always complained about. Sneaking a look at Dudley to make sure he wasn't watching, Harry dashed to the checkout counter and gave Mrs. Amy his card before he changed his mind.


	2. Bibliophile

Author's Note: Wow! It's so amazing to find reviews from people who like what I've written! Thanks loads, guys.

Harry Potter was a bibliophile. He'd found the term in a book entitled _Latin Usage in Common English_, and he decided it almost described him perfectly. It didn't describe him completely perfectly because he also rather liked _National Geographic_ which was a magazine, not a book. He'd actually stayed up reading the month's _National Geographic_ last night. There were a couple of words he didn't know, but he'd looked them up in the large red dictionary Mrs. Amy had given him. There were even more words he couldn't understand for a different reason; the neighbours at number six had thrown the magazine out with their kitchen garbage and there were watermarks all over the glossy paper. Still, he had read what he could on those pages and moved on.

His day was shaping up to a good one. Aunt Petunia hadn't been feeling well last night so he'd been let off the sewing project.

The sewing project had started when Mrs. Duncan at number three bragged to Aunt Petunia about a quilt she was going to make her son for Christmas. Aunt Petunia, not to be outdone, immediately started on one for Dudley. Once she realized what a time-consuming and tedious process it was, making the quilt had quickly become 'the Boy's job.' As an incentive for Harry to do it properly, she told him he could have any left over material to make a quilt of his own. He doubted she would keep her word, but he didn't dislike the job. While Harry sewed, Aunt Petunia sat on the sofa and read, glancing up occasionally to fuss at him for slow progress or sloppy work.

That hurt slightly. He knew that he was neither sloppy nor slow, and Aunt Petunia's perpetual image of Harry as a bad Boy wasn't right. In the past year and a half, he had kept strictly to his good Boy list. He was quiet, did what he was told, and cooked gourmet meals. He hadn't been able to cut down on his food intake very much, but he knew he wouldn't be able to work as well if he were hungry. He sighed slightly. This wasn't the first time that the Dursleys had changed what being a good Boy meant. The first time had been really awful.

He'd been amazed by the library. Once he'd taught himself cooking, he'd realized the sheer amount of skills that he could learn from the place. He'd found books about growing plants animals, books about the moon and stars, books about history and politics. He wanted to learn all of it; he was sure the more things he knew, the better Boy he'd be. He just wasn't sure what to begin with. That was where Mrs. Amy had come in. He'd worked up his courage and approached her, asking where to start. She had been thrilled. The first things she'd shown him were things he would be learning in school. She'd said that was what would be most useful to him.

Every week, he would take home a stack of books she'd picked out for him. Grammer, History, Maths, and Literature were the main subjects, but Mrs. Amy always included something fun, like _Paper Aeroplane Construction _or _Knots and Hitches_. Harry had kept them in his cupboard, reading them at night by the light of a pilfered torch. He only brought them out of his cupboard on library day; even then he kept them in his backpack. He'd made on fundamental logical fallacy, though. He'd applied what he'd learned at the library to his school work, and he'd started getting A's.

Harry shuddered as he remembered the nine-week report card he'd brought home so proudly; sure that this would tell his Aunt and Uncle he was a good Boy. Mr. Jones, the year one teacher, had made such a big deal about it in class, apparently he'd gotten the highest grade in every subject. Harry had been too busy drinking in the rare instance of approval to see anger and jealousy twist Dudley's piggy face.

Dudley had run off the school bus to make sure he got to his mother first, but Harry had been too busy imagining the smile Aunt Petunia would give him when she saw his report card to see the warning signs. He'd entered the house, and immediately been accosted by Aunt Petunia. Before he could say a word, he'd been lifted by his shirt collar and thrown into his cupboard. He hadn't had any idea what he'd done, until he'd heard Dudley and Aunt Petunia in the kitchen; Dudley loudly explaining how the freak must have cheated, how he'd been trying to show Dudley up. Harry had slowly curled up into a ball, filled with the terrible certainty that Aunt Petunia would believe Dudley.

He had been left alone in his cupboard until Uncle Vernon came home; Dudley had been sent upstairs and Aunt Petunia explained things to Uncle Vernon. They were speaking too low for Harry to hear the whole conversation, but he caught phrases like '_trying to show Dudders up_', '_ungrateful whelp'_, and '_must have used his freakishness._' He had a twisting sensation in his gut that told him this was going to turn out very, very badly. Finally, all conversation stopped, and he heard Uncle Vernon's thundering steps stop in front of the cupboard before he wrenched open the door and thundered, "Boy!"

Harry briefly contemplated not coming out, but he knew that would be worse in the long run. It would be better to get this over with now. He crawled around the vacuum cleaner and emerged from the small space, blinking at the sudden light. He automatically focused on Uncle Vernon, whose face was redder than Harry had ever seen it. They stared at each other for a moment before Harry looked down and Uncle Vernon started bellowing.

"You ungrateful brat! After all we've done for you, you have the nerve to try and make Dudley look bad! We've fed you, we've clothed you, we've even given you house-space…" Harry shrunk into himself. He was a good Boy, he really tried to be. Hadn't he been doing better? He wanted to explain that he really hadn't done anything freaky, he'd just been studying, but he knew uncle Vernon wouldn't believe him. "…tainting Dudley with your unnatural freakishness…corrupting your teacher to…" Harry noticed that uncle Vernon seemed to be getting angrier and angrier the longer he yelled. "Now get in your cupboard, Boy, and stay there until we let you out!" Uncle Vernon bodily picked Harry up and threw him into his cupboard. Harry thre out his arms to try and soften his landing, and as he hit the floor, there was a crunching "Crack!" Uncle Vernon slammed the door and locked, and Harry was left in the dark with a broken wrist for three days.

The rules about being a good Boy had changed several time since then, but Harry had been able to figure out the changes quickly enough not to break them.

Any way, without work on the quilt to do, he'd gotten his chores done at 10:00 last night, instead of the usual 11:15. He'd actually been able to read for an hour before he fell into an exhausted sleep. As usual he'd woken up at 5:30 to get a gourmet breakfast started.

Learning to cook had had been a double-edged sword, he pondered, as he crawled out from underneath the stairs. First, there had been the mistakes. The cookbooks he'd checked out from the library used a lot of technical terms, and he had no idea how the metric system worked. Thankfully, the cookbooks had a glossary at the back, but it had taken several weeks for Mathematics class to move from multiplication to measuring. Harry had gone without food a lot of days because his experiments hadn't turned out right. He'd been determined to be a good Boy, though, and he'd eventually mastered the art of following a recipe.

Now, however, not only did the Dursleys expect to be served ridiculously complicated dishes at every meal, but Harry was also expected to do all of the cooking for the multitude of dinner parties Uncle Vernon hosted. And there were a lot of dinner parties once Uncle Vernon realized that Harry was a better cook than most of his co-workers' wives put together. He didn't regret learning to cook, though. Not only was he able to eat more than he ever had, but knowledge was never wasted.

By 6:30 Aunt Petunia was beginning to stir upstairs, the sausage was thawed, and Harry had finished dicing the fruit. He quickly pattied up the sausage and tossed it in the oil-filled pot, ducking droplets of grease with experience. While it and the birds-eye-eggs were frying, he packed his and Dudley's schoolbags, found where his cousin had hidden his shoes and placed them by the door, set the table, and darted upstairs to wake Dudley and knock on his Aunt and Uncle's door.

Once the Dursleys had all lumbered downstairs, Harry whisked the food and their preferred drinks to the table. As Uncle Vernon settled his great bulk into his chair, Harry stood quietly in one corner, waiting to see if the food met his Uncle's expectations. He smiled softly as his uncle took a sampling of all the food on the table. Uncle Vernon acted almost as though he expected the food to be poisoned!

He nodded curtly at Harry, who scurried off to the bathroom. They had an unspoken agreement; if Uncle Vernon liked what Harry had fixed, Harry got a five-minute shower. It had been a very great time since Uncle Vernon hadn't liked Harry's food, but sometimes he still didn't let Harry shower, just out of spite.

Harry turned the faucet on and quickly stripped, looking in the mirror as he did so. A very small boy stared back at him with bright green, deep-shadowed eyes. The circles had been particularly dark since aunt Petunia started the sewing project; she had given his teacher some excuse involving allergies. Both his face and body were extremely thin, made thinner by the slightly overlarge clothes he was draped in. Aunt Petunia let him tailor his clothes whenever they had the sewing machine out, but he wasn't good enough at it to make the clothes fit him well.

As he pulled his shirt over his head, it was revealed that his ribs were clearly visible, and his stomach was slightly sunken in. This didn't bother Harry; he'd been let out of a two-day-long, foodless stint in his cupboard only a days ago, but he'd eaten an almost Dudley-sized amount of food before the Dursleys woke.

Shimmying out of his shorts, Harry rationalized his lack of steady food. If he got too much food, he'd grow, and he wouldn't be able to fit underneath the bottom stair. He was quite proud that he hadn't grown an inch in the past year and a half. He was by far the shortest child in his class, which allowed him to fit into place others couldn't. This ability was particularly handy when Dudley, Piers, and Barton were Harry Hunting.

Harry realized he'd taken too long in the shower when Dudley pounded on the door and hollered down the stairs, "Daddy, Freak's taking up the bathroom. Make him get out!" He heard Uncle Vernon's chair scrape on the downstairs floor, and Harry quickly threw a towel around his waist, ducked the blow Dudley aimed at him as he darted out of the door, then scampered down the stairs to get dressed in his cupboard. By the time he emerged from his cupboard fully clothed, Dudley was running out the door to catch the school bus. Harry grabbed his backpack and followed him, inwardly lamenting the fact that he'd taken so long in the shower that he hadn't been able to pack himself lunch.

As always, Harry sat in the front, knowing that proximity to the bus driver greatly decreased the likelihood of getting beat up by Dudley. He made sure that he was the first one off the bus, and he ran to his classroom as fast as he could, not wanting to be caught in the corridors with Dudley and his friends. He knew Piers and Barton would not hesitate to corner him if they got the chance, and he wouldn't give Dudley the chance to add to his collection of bruises. Besides, they'd be late to class, Dudley would blame him, and Ms. Jane would believe him. She always believed Dudley. Maybe it was because she regularly had lunch with Aunt Petunia's circle of gossipers, or perhaps because Uncle Vernon had taken the time to warn her, at the beginning of the year, about 'his attention-seeking brat of a nephew.'

He made it to the class without any complications, and slid into his chair. The classroom filled gradually, Dudley and Barton coming in last. He knew by their expression when they saw him that they had been hunting for him in the hallways, but he was relatively safe in the classroom with Ms. Jane watching. Even _she _couldn't turn a blind eye if Dudley actually attacked him in front of her.

The morning passed quickly in a sleep-deprived daze. Harry didn't know what was being covered in class, as he simply didn't care enough to pay attention. This was just school. He did his learning at the library. Who cared about the capital of Panama when he could go to the library and find the population, poverty rate, governmental system, and land mass of the country? He was startled out of his reverie when his name was called. Harry looked up to find Ms. Jane towering over him, scowl set firmly on her face.

"Harry!", she said again, and Harry realized she must have called his name several times before this. His classmates were tittering, and Dudley was whispering something in a smirking Piers' ear. He looked tiredly up at Ms. Jane and answered,

"Yes, Ma'am?"

Still frowning, she snapped at him. "There will be no sleeping in my class, Mr. Potter! Please take the quiz I've been trying to hand you."

He took the paper and looked at it. The first problem, one he knew, asked the multiples of six; he idly wondered when they'd moved on to Maths. He was tired, so tired, and he didn't care what he put on the test. He just moved through the answers as fast as he could, quickly finishing the test, then putting his head down on his desk.

Ms. Jane woke him up again when she came around to collect the tests, and when she moved to her desk to grade them, she kept a stern eye on him. He knew she wouldn't let him get away with any more naps, so he opened his history book and scanned the assigned reading. It was a basic section on King Henry XIII that he'd read the first week of school. He couldn't wait till lunch; he wanted to be out of this pointless classroom. Not only did lunch disrupt the monotony of the school day, but Mrs. Amy's granddaughter, Jenna, was in grade six, and she ate lunch at the same time grade one did. She and her friends were fond of Harry, and even Dudley wasn't stupid enough to brave a hoard of ten-year-old girls, not even to get at Harry.

Jenna and her friends were very kind, Harry pondered. They let him sit with them at lunch, and read their textbooks, and they even explained the stuff he couldn't understand. What was better, they ruffled his hair, and kissed him on the cheek, and hugged him. They treated him like their own live doll, but Harry was pretty sure they liked him. He would miss them when they started at Stonewall high next year.

Just then, the bell rang. The students collected their lunchboxes and made their way to the cafeteria. Dudley had pushed and shoved his way to the front of the line, so Harry made sure to stay at the back. He was almost at the door when Ms. Jane called his name.

"Potter, stay behind." He turned to look at her, confused. Her frown was back, and she held a paper in her hand. He stopped, then turned and walked to her desk. He didn't know why he was in trouble. She'd already yelled at him for falling asleep, that couldn't be it. Could it be the quiz? But even if he'd gotten a 50 on it, it was what she expected from him. Dudley had been getting D's for some time, which meant Harry had to get at least a 69, preferably lower.

She looked at him sternly, and handed him the quiz. Harry saw, to his shock, that he'd gotten 100. He swore mentally. He'd been too sleepy to remember to flunk the test! He look up at the teacher, preparing a story about having guessed most of them. He'd even opened his mouth to start explaining, when she sternly said,

"Did you know that Mariabella Johnson, who sits in front of you, also got one-hundred on this quiz?" Harry looked at her, frowning. What on earth… His chain of thought was interrupted by Ms. Jane's strict voice.

"Why did you cheat, Harry?"

His prepared lie flew out of his mind as he growled, "I swear I didn't cheat!"

He was so angry. It was always "The freak did this," or "The Boy did that!" Why did everyone always believe the worst of him?

"Harry Potter! You haven't gotten above a seventy in this class the whole year! Of course you cheated!"

It wasn't his fault, he'd tried his best to please everyone. Now he would be sent to the headmistresses' office, and she would call his Aunt and Uncle who would be delighted that 'the Freak' had been caught in his mischief. He'd probably be locked in his cupboard, all because some stupid teacher hadn't believed him!

"I did not cheat!"

He was so angry, and he just wanted the stupid teacher to get what she deserved for not believing him and…

Harry's thought processes failed him completely as he watched Ms. Jane's long, bottle-blond hair turn bright blue.

Had he, Harry, done that?


	3. Freak

A/N- Random trivia: almost one percent of people who clicked on this story actually reviewed. So thank you very, very much to the ten people who reviewed! ( and sorry for the twenty-something day wait) I'm not completely satisfied with how it turned out, but if I didn't put it up now, it wasn't going up, so… Also, extra thanks to Dogsby for the longest review J

Harry Potter was a Freak. He knew this quite well, and he was rather proud of the fact. The Dursleys hated it, of course, but who really cared what the Dursleys thought? All the same, he kept the fact quiet. In every comic he'd ever read, the superhero kept an anonymous alter-ego so that he wouldn't be caught by mad scientists and locked up and studied. Harry wouldn't mind getting away from the Dursleys, but not at the expense of his freedom.

He'd always wondered why the Dursleys called him and his parents freaks. When he was younger, he'd assumed it had something to do with his misconception about being a Boy. Now he knew better.

When it really came down to it, he wasn't particularly fond of the term Freak. He preferred Mage or Magus. Istari, and Psychokinetic were also good, Warlock and Magycian were acceptable, and even the unoriginal Wizard was better than Freak. But, thought Harry philosophically, Freak they called him, so Freak he was.

Harry had devoted considerable time and effort to the exploration of his powers. He'd read up on Pschokinesis and the scientific method, and tried to apply as many of the standard controls as he could to his experiments. Some of the things he could do weren't documented, and he'd had to turn to science fiction and fantasy novels to get names for those skills. The books, in turn, had provided him with more ideas to try, more ways to stretch his burgeoning powers.

He had originally entertained the idea the his powers were like a supernatural "muscle"; the more he exercised it, the bigger it would grow. His rate of fatigue wasn't increasing though; he'd been practicing for about six months and he still got tired after the same amount of use. He now theorized that either he had a finite amount of super-power, or his power reservoir was linked to his development process. He liked the last theory better. His body getting tired when he exercised his powers proved they were tied to his physiology in one way; why shouldn't they be tied in another?

So far he'd found he could: use most documented forms of telekinesis, heal faster than average, teleport, transmute matter, generate a force field (though he could only get it as big as a plate), and enchant object to do as he wished. Enchanting took a lot out of him, so he'd only tried it twice. Both times, the matchbox car had lost its speed after a couple of weeks, and no longer moved at all after a month or two. He could also talk to Mrs. Figgs cats; they never talked back, but they always seemed to do what he asked, if he asked politely. He'd been rather afraid to try phasing. If he got stuck in the object he was supposed to be going through, would he be able to get out? He knew he'd have to try it soon, though; he needed a foolproof way to get out of his cupboard. Another skill he'd been hesitant to attempt was mind-control/possession. Minds were tricky things; any brain surgeon or psychiatrist could attest to that. What exactly was he supposed to do if he messed up somebody's mind while he was taking their body for a joy-ride? Worse, what if he got stuck out of his body and couldn't get back in? No, as useful as it could be, Harry intended to leave that subject well alone.

In addition to things he wouldn't do, there were the things he couldn't do. As hard as he tried, he couldn't control magnetism or light, though he had managed to make himself invisible once. (it had taken him several hours to figure out how to turn back normal) Metamorphosis was proving rather hard as well; though Harry was sure that he was just approaching it the wrong way. It was rewarding though, when he learned something new about himself and his powers. He was special, his powers proved it.

It had taken him a while to figure things out. Despite that one wild, initial thought after he'd turned his teacher's hair blue, he'd readily accepted the school's explanation of a chemical reaction. The actions of his relatives, though, had been much worse than the time he'd gotten good grades. He flinched as he remembered it. It had been the first - and only - time that Uncle Vernon had caned him. He'd had scabs on his back the whole week he'd been shut in his cupboard, and bruises for much longer. Face tightening, Harry remembered the resolution he'd come to while lying in the dark, stomach cramping, mouth dry. First, he had to face the evidence he'd been trying to ignore for so long; there were no other Boys. Never had anyone else mentioned them. Never had he read about them in a history or culture studies book. When he'd asked Mrs. Amy, in the vaguest terms, who did her cooking and cleaning, she'd replied that she did it herself.

He hadn't thought about her answer for a while; hadn't wanted to. If he were the only Boy in the world, that would mean that only the Dursleys were normal, not Harry. If there were other Boys, even though he had never met one, Harry wasn't alone. He wasn't the only one who slept in a cupboard, nor was he the only one who did all the cooking and cleaning for his family. It was comforting to think he wasn't really alone, it made his circumstances more bearable. He could even like his work sometimes. However, if he was the only Boy in the world, it meant that there was something so wrong with him that the Dursleys felt it necessary to treat him horribly. But most of all, if Harry was the only boy in the whole wide world, it meant the he could never be good enough, never know enough, and never work enough to make his family love him.

Needless to say, he'd been avoiding thinking about that. His usual refrain, 'knowledge is never wasted,' seemed to have failed him in this instance. A week was the longest he'd ever been shut in his cupboard, though, and he'd had nothing to do but think.

He had come to two conclusions: firstly, he would never ever be good enough to please his relatives, so he might as well stop trying. Secondly, he needed to find out what exactly made him so distasteful to his relatives, and if he could exploit it. Harry had a nasty feeling that once he stopped trying so hard to be a good Boy, his family would grow much more openly antagonistic. He needed a way to ensure that he didn't become a permanent fixture in his cupboard.

It was hard, thinking of the Dursleys as enemies. He'd spent so long trying to make them happy that, even after he knew it was a pointless endeavour, it was tempting to slip back into that more naive world view. But he made himself think it through thoroughly. If he suddenly stopped making breakfast and doing chores and getting worse grades than Dudley, he'd be thrown in his cupboard until he gave up any thoughts of 'rebellion.' If he gradually stopped doing his chores by about one a week, he be punished as he stopped doing each one. If he kept doing his chores and just did less on them, he'd be thrown into his cupboard until he stopped 'slacking.' The only solution Harry could think of was to keep working as hard as he was now, until he could figure out what was wrong with him and if it was something he could use against the Dursleys.

He again pondered just leaving things as they were. It wasn't too bad… sure, none of his class-mates would have been able to stand the work-load, but he was used to it. And of course the cupboard wasn't nice but it was better than the streets. And… Harry shook his head to clear it of those traitorous thoughts, knocking over a can of disinfectant in the process. Uncle Vernon, who had been passing the cupboard on the way to the bathroom, banged on the door and yelled, " Quiet down in there, Freak!"

Harry had gotten out of his cupboard two days later, and he'd resumed his usual activities, all the while looking for hints as to what was wrong with him. He'd had all sorts of possibilities; maybe he'd been an unusually awful baby, he thought with a smile. Perhaps he'd cried all night and peed in Aunt Petunia's face when she tried to change his diapers. He giggled at the thought., but quickly sobered up as more serious possibilities popped into his mind. It couldn't be something physically obvious, otherwise his teachers and classmates would have noticed it. He almost decided that that narrowed it down to something psychologically wrong with him (after all, no-one was around him more than the Dursleys, so they were best positioned to notice something), when he remembered one critical fact. The Dursleys had known -and apparently despised- his parents. Furthermore, they reserved the title of Freak for particularly for him and his parents.

Now he had three possibilities to investigate. Either something was wrong with his mind and only the Dursleys had noticed it, they hated his parents and that hatred had been transferred to him, or whatever was wrong with him had also been present in his parents. The last prospect made the most sense, considering the Dursleys' persistent label, but Harry resolved to explore all the possibilities. However, even if the term Freak was deserved by both he and his parents, that still didn't tell him what was wrong with him, only that it was hereditary.

He'd spent six weeks researching psychology and mental issues in the library before the next incident, one that couldn't be explained away, happened; but he discovered one very useful fact while perusing the library's psychology section. He, Harry qualified as abused. This didn't faze him much. He didn't really consider himself to be abused (though the book mentioned that most abused children denied the fact), but because he fit the perimeters, he had leverage against the Dursleys. It was similar with many of the psychological disorders he'd found in his research: he didn't think he was mental, but if he really were, would he think so? Surely he would be more likely to think the rest of the world was mental. Harry paused at that, smirking. The rest of the world was mental, who was he kidding?

Anyway he'd spent a good month-and-a-half researching, but his biggest clue had been a complete accident. It had been a normal day at school. Boredom, lunch, boredom, then recess. Normally at recess, he stayed safely close to the supervising teacher for the whole period. This time, however, he'd seen an opportunity he just had to take. The playground had a grand total of three swings, and normally the older kids occupied all of them. Today, however, one of them was empty. Harry hadn't gotten a chance play on one for months, and he really wanted to. Looking both left and right for Dudley, Harry darted across the field and settled into the plastic seat. He started swinging his legs, and soon was whooshing back and forth going higher and higher with every swing.

Harry loved the feeling it gave him. It felt like he was free, like he was flying, like all his troubles and worries and plots and plans had been left in a little pile in the dirt underneath the swing. He closed his eyes, wind soaring through his hair as he went back and forth. He felt intuitively when he'd swung as far up as the swing could go and, with a shout of joy, he heaved himself into the air. He soared, staying up in the air much longer than he should have, landing much lighter than should have been possible. He opened his eyes and looked around. Had that really just happened? How long had he stayed in the air? He gave a sigh of relief as he realized that nobody seemed to have noticed anything unusual. Next order of the day: find out whether something odd had actually happened, or whether it was all his imagination.

The next order of the day was interrupted by Dudley. Harry had abandoned the swings and started walking toward the school doors, lost in thought, when he bumped into some-one. He looked up to apologize and saw Bradley, Dudley's year six friend glaring down at him. Dudley's voice came from behind him, and as Harry spun around, he saw that he was surrounded by Dudley and his goons, all of whom were at least 10 centimetres taller than him.

Dudley's voice was a strange mixture of fearful and angry. "We saw what you did, you little Freak, and you're gonna pay!"

Then Bradley punched him hard in the back, Piers tripped him as he stumbled foreword, and he went down. Dudley, Malcolm, and Davis moved foreword to have a kick each. Harry expected respite; they'd had their fun and they knew as well as he that the teacher would interfere when she noticed the noise. The ambush, however, seemed to have been planned with unusual cunning. As Harry lay on the ground trying to look uninteresting, Bradley casually stepped over his body, rolled him to where he was facing up, and hit him hard in the solar plexus. All the air rushed out of him in one gust, but Dudley and Bradley each grabbed an arm and half carried him, half dragged him out of the teacher's line of sight. Malcolm and the rest of the gang scurried ahead to scare away a couple of younger girls making sandcastles. Harry shot the girls a pleading look as they passed by, but aside from a single apologetic expression, they ignored him. Harry understood; they weren't about to mess with Dudley. The boys threw him down onto the sand in front of them and stood over him, glaring fiercely at him. Piers and the rest of the goons moved to flank Dudley, who had opened his mouth and spoken.

"I'll tell Mum and Dad, but they won't give you the thrashing you deserve for your… unnaturalness." Dudley sneered on the last word. Drawing in a big gulp of air. Harry look around. The faces of his tormentors were coloured with various shades of fear, but even as he watched, their fear turned to rage. Harry lay wheezing on the ground, filled with dreadful certainty that this was not going to end well.

Dudley's punch landed first, in his stomach. It was probably a blessing; he curled in a ball instinctively and all the other blows aimed at his tender stomach were deflected to his arms and back. Harry opened his eyes just in time to see Dudley foot crash into the side of his face. He felt another blow impact his thigh, and a knobbly, but no less hard fist pummel into the small of his back. He closed his eyes, not even bothering to flinch and dodge. It only made things more interesting for his attackers. He just wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, but here. Somewhere where Dudley couldn't reach him, where he'd be safe, where…With a crack and a pop, Harry Potter disappeared from the sandlot and reappeared on the roof of the school kitchen.

After a few tense moments, he gradually opened his eyes. No Dudley, no goons, bright sunlight… Harry slowly sat up, wincing as he irritated his injuries. He looked around. He was on the school roof. How peculiar. He shook his head, wincing as his neck popped. School roof…

Suddenly his brain resumed it normal level of activity. How the hell had he gotten on the school roof? There was no possible way he had gotten from the ground on the complete other side of the school to this particular section of metal roofing.

Harry rapidly thought of a long string of coincidences that now seemed a lot more like impossibilities. He considered years of the moniker Freak. He remembered the odd, jealous expression on Aunt Petunia's face the one time he'd dared ask her about her sister.

It all come together in one easy to understand package. This Freakishness, this unnaturalness, this… wonderfulness, this was what the Dursleys so hated about him and his parents. He was unique, and the Dursleys were normal. He, Harry Potter, was special, and the Dursleys were not. He suddenly cared a lot less about normal. This was wonderful! Careless of his injuries, Harry stood up and did an impromptu dance. Not only was this talent something he surely shared with his parents, but it was also something the Dursleys disliked, possibly even feared. He had leverage!

Once he'd found his way down from the roof, Harry made his way back to his classroom. He told his teacher something about getting lost on the way back from the restrooms, and took the empty seat right behind Dudley. Leaning foreword, he muttered in Dudley's ear, "You tell Aunt and Uncle what happened, and I'll use my powers to turn you into a girl."

Dudley made to spin around, but apparently thought better of it. Harry saw his face pale, though, and knew his threat had hit home. Harry wasn't exactly sure if he could turn someone into a girl (it would be something to research later), but it made a very effective threat.

As soon as school ended, Harry made his way towards the library. He checked out five books on Wiccan rituals, paranormal investigation, and magic, and spent the next week poring over them, copying any good ideas down in his grimoire. The next week, he went back to the library and checked out five more. This went on for a month before Harry was satisfied he had enough ideas to start with. Next, he began practicing.

By now, he was mostly through the paranormal list, and had tried, with unsuccessful results, the Wiccan magic. He hadn't even started on the science fiction and fantasy inspired ideas. He was still living in his cupboard, cooking and cleaning for the Dursleys, but his workload had gone down a bit since Dudley stopped making deliberate messes for Harry to clean up. Harry smirked. His threat, combined with a few well-placed reminders, had made a lasting impression on Dudley; he was much easier do deal with now that he wasn't as hostile. If only his Aunt and Uncle could be so easily handled.

Harry shrugged. It was odd really; he'd spent five years trying to make them happy, but once he stopped trying, he found he didn't care in the slightest what they thought about him. They could call him a Freak all they wanted, but in his heart, Harry knew he was special.

A/N I tried my darndest to show what made such a drastic change in Harry's attitude in the past year. Also, keep in mind that in the final flashback, that Harry is a malnourished 7 year old; a little more than three and a half foot tall, about 35 lbs. Dudley is 4 ft and more like 70 lbs. Bradley is almost 5ft, and a good 90 lbs. Yes, Harry is very much intimidated by them. Anyway, if you think any of it is too much, tell me and I'll try and fix it. BTW, What's the difference between a Hit and a Visitor?


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